


Absinthe, On The Tip Of My Tongue

by MissVictoriaRose



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Black Hermione Granger, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Messing with the Stark Family Tree, Multi, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, SHIELD interference, Time Travel, improbable time machines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-11-22 06:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11374695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissVictoriaRose/pseuds/MissVictoriaRose
Summary: Once upon a time, SHIELD showed up on the doorsteps of a lightning scarred war heroine, everything really goes down hill from there.or,The misadventures of the Mistress of Death and those who court Her.





	1. A Stranger at the Door

“Who the bloody hell are you?” Harrie asked, leaning against the door frame, keeping the opened door close to her body.

On her porch stood a man, looking purposely basic. He had neatly trimmed brown hair. He was wearing dark black sunglasses that effectively hid his eyes, and a tailored black suit. The whole look screamed ‘secret government agent’ and it put Harrie on edge. 

“Do you have a moment, miss Potter? I would like to speak to you about an important private issue,” the man said.

“Harrie, who’s at the door?” Hermione’s voice shouted from the kitchen.

Harrie arched her back, sticking her head on the other side of the door from the agent looking man on the porch, to shout, “I don’t know, he hasn’t given me his name. Says he’s got an important private issue to talk about.”

She turned back to the man on her doorstep as Ron came up behind her and pulled the door open a little farther to fit his frame.

“Sounds important and private,” he said, earning a small chuckle from Harrie. “What business do you have with Harrie that you’d track her down here?” Ron asked, dropping an arm on Harrie’s shoulder.

“Ron,” Hermione growled quietly, coming up behind the two, to stand on the other side of Harrie.

Ron shot at look at Harrie, who just shrugged.

“Ron’s got a point, Hermione,” Harrie said, turning her attention back to the man at the door, “You must have gone to a lot of trouble to track down 12 Grimmauld Place—“

“Who did you say you were?” Hermione asked, cutting Harrie off.

“I am with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement Logistics Division, and we would like a moment of your time,” the man said, arms crossed and linked in front of him. 

The three inside the house assumed he was talking to Harrie, although it was hard to tell, as that the man’s head hadn’t wavered from staring straight ahead.

“That’s certainly a mouthful,” Ron murmured, looking the man up and down.

“And what exactly does, Shield—that is what you call yourselves, correct?” at the man’s nod, Hermione continued crossing her arms in front of her chest as she stared the man down, “What exactly does SHIELD do?”

“We deal with global security ma’am,” the man answered patiently, unmoving.

Harrie was slightly impressed. Ron stood tall, over six feet, and was scared from his time in the war and working as a Auror—he made an intimidating picture. While Hermione had a librarian’s look that even harden Death Eater’s would, and had, flinch at. Yet, this man hadn’t so much as twitched under their attention. Harrie was… curious. 

“You may come in,” Harrie said, backing up and swinging the door open for the man. Both Ron and Hermione made to disagree, but Harrie had already turned on her heels, walking farther into the house as she spoke over them, “but these two stay for the conversation.”

The man paused at the doorway, then nodded in agreement as he walked in. Hermione turned to follow Harrie, but Ron stayed at the door, letting the man walk in front of him through the house.  
Harry lead them all to the first room off the foyer, a dim drawing room specifically staged for entertaining guest of important nature. It was a rather intimidating room—Harrie’d put her money on it being intentional—with the Black Family Coat of Arms hanging over a dusty unlit fireplace. 

“Miss Potter,” the man said once he was seated on the opulent snake skin couch, another thing Mrs. Weasley had tried to get rid of, calling it ‘offensively ostentatious’.

Mrs. Weasley had once tried to rid the room, as well as the house, of all things dark arts and family heirlooms. But the Black family had been proud, and covetous. Everything the woman had attempted to get rid of, returned to it’s original placing within the house. The trio agree to never point it out to the hardheaded mother of seven.

“Mr.?” Harrie asked politely as Ron dropped his seat on her left side, Hermione on her right. He kicked a foot out forward, knocking his knee on the dark wood coffee table that sat between the two couches. Hermione leant against the end of the couch, staring the new-comer down. All three watched the man’s eye’s dart around the room, lingering on the odd skull or dagger.

No one could figure out how it had happened, whether it was a spell or curse, or if it was something coded into the wards of the manor. Harrie had stopped trying to figure it out. After everything had happened, she had found comfort in being surrounded by things that had once belonged to Sirius, her godfather. Not to mention, as Lady of the House—as Sirius’ heir, everything that was thrown out now belonged to her. No one could begrudge an orphan for wanting family heirlooms, even if it wasn’t technically her family’s. 

“Coulson,” the man said, leaning forward on the couch to more intently stare at Harrie. “I am here to talk to you about something that has come to the attention of the Strategic—“

“Shield, yes. What exactly are you getting at,” Harries asked, interrupting the man and getting an elbow to the side of her ribs by Hermione, “Sir.”

Black family heirlooms returning certainly wasn’t a problem at the moment, with a stranger in her home, knowing there were weapons and cursed objects strategically placed around the house. 

She felt oddly safe, something akin to home field advantage—and wasn’t that something new, feeling some symbolic of home anywhere outside of Hogwarts.

The man, Mr. Coulson, cleared his throat. His eyes darted between Ron and Hermione, as he hesitated on speaking.

“Well? We haven’t got all day,” Ron said flopping his head on the back of the couch. Hermione and Harrie cringed slightly when they heard the thud of his skull hitting nothing but the wood frame.

Harrie could feel the glare Hermione was trying to send through her to Ron, as he grumbled under is breath about Slytherin’s not knowing how to make a proper couch.

“What?” he mumbled to Hermione. “This is worse than the talk with Scrimgeour about the will.”

“It has come to our attention,” Coulson said rather loudly, gaining their attention again, “that you, Miss Potter, are the family relation of important person of interest to SHIELD, and as such, we would be appreciative if you would return with me to the states.”

“What? You can’t just demand she relocate—“ Ron said jumping to his feet. Harrie yanked him back down to the couch, leading him to bang his head a second time.

“Who? No offense Harrie, but all her blood family is dead. Well, not the Dursley’s, but I hardly think they are ‘of interest’ to anyone.” Hermione rambled over Ron and Harrie’s commotion.

“Why are you telling me this? I’m 18 years old, who ever this ‘family relation’ is, I’ve spent my entire life without them. So, why are they relevant now?”

“This conversation is out of curtesy, Miss Potter, for what you have done for your people and your country. The… person of interest, is… not in good health. We thought you would like to be made aware of the situation, and perhaps, lend your talents to helping them.”

That wording caused all three to pause and return to staring intently at the man. 

“What talent would that be?” Hermione asked, slowly standing to step around the coffee table.

“What do you mean, ‘your people’?” Ron asked, jumping to his feet again, this time moving quickly out of Harrie’s reach.

“Who is this person?” Harrie asked, still seated on the center of the couch, but had her arm ready to flick her wand out.

“Your father, Tony Stark,” Coulson said, looking only at Harrie, as if her two friends were inconsequential.

“That’s impossible,” Harrie denied. “James Potter was my father, and he’s dead.”

“Our intelligence says otherwise ma’am,” Coulson said. He rose smoothly from the couch, straightening his suit jacket as he stood. “If you decide to save your father’s life,” he placed a white business card on the table, “here is my number.”

He then, swiftly and gracefully, left the room, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on them with his few measly words.

The three stayed quiet as they listen to his footsteps on the marble floor of the entryway, the front door opening, and the rattle of the metal door-knocker as the man slammed the door shut.

“He’s lying,” Ron said as soon as the man gone, glaring at the door the man had just left. “There is no way—“

“But he said he had intelligence. He knows… something—“ Hermione pointed out as she picked up the business card.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean the intelligence is correct,” Ron said, ranking a hand down his face. His eyes jumped to Harrie.

“But it does mean they know something. There’s a chance they know something we don’t,” Hermione said, walking back over to Harrie, who was staring a whole where the man had been sitting.

Harrie blinked a few times, looking from Ron, still standing by the door, to Hermione, who was now standing on the other side of her. She jumped to her feet and moved passed Hermione, feeling too much like she had a devil and angel whispering in her ears. 

“I think I’m going to call him,” Harrie said, more towards the fireplace than to the other people in the room, “I mean, the guy is dying right? If I can do something—“

“This could be a trap,” Ron said, as he slowly paced in the open area by the door. “He knows, Harrie. I doubt he’s a muggle, but did you hear him? He’s clearly from the U.S., can we trust those people? With their knock-off Hogwarts?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, “Like something as simple as ‘trustworthiness’ is going to stop Harrie. She was told a man, possible family relation was dying—“

Ron ran a hand down his face, “The man, Coulson or whatever, said it was her dad. We know her dad, he’s James Potter. It’s indisputable—she’s James’ spitting image, only, you know, a girl. We also know James is dead. Which means something weird is going on here.”

“He’s dying,” Hermione said, turning to full face Ron. “You honestly think Harrie’s not going to try to save him?”

“I’m just saying,” Ron said with a sigh, “we had enough weirdness that we jump head first into. We’re suppose to be older, maybe we outta think this one out a bit?”

Both turned to face Harrie for her input, just as she was hitting ‘talk’ on her phone.

“Hello… Yes, this is Harrie Potter,” she said with the phone pressed against her ear.

“Fine,” Ron said, throwing his hands up. “I never wanted to be an adult anyways.” 

He quickly turned to Harrie, pointing at her, “But we are taking our own way there, and we are finding our own place to stay.”


	2. Hotel California

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio arrive in California in hopes of figuring out the truth of SHIELD's claims. Coulson interferes, and more questions arise.

Malibu, California was not as fun as people liked to pretend it to be. It was too hot, and there were too many people. On top of it all, there was sand, everywhere. 

“I don’t understand it!” Hermione complained as the group stopped outside the fancy hotel they were all staying at, to give her a moment to attempt to get the sand out of her shoe. “We came straight here from the airport!”

“You think it’s a conspiracy?” Ron asked, crossing his arms to lean against the side of the art-deco stone building that was the hotel. 

“Aw I miss Luna,” Harrie said, gearing herself up to ignore the oncoming banter between the two lovebirds.

“At least I didn’t need to spend an hour bathing in sunscreen,” Hermione snarked, getting her shoe back on.

“Nah, but you’re going to wish you did. Gingers aren’t the only ones in the world to get a sunburn,” Ron said with a smirk as Hermione shoulder checked him as she passed him.

“Let’s get checked in. I want a shower,” Hermione ordered.

“Yes, Lord commander,” Ron and Harrie said with mocking salutes, before trailing after her.

“Hello, we’re checking-in, reservation’s under ‘Potter’,” Hermione told the clerk at the welcoming desk.

“Oh, there has been a change to your rooms,” the clerk informed them as she typed away at the computer.

“Pardon me?” Hermione asked.

At the same time Ron asked, “What change?”

And Harrie, “By who?”

The clerk looked between the three, back at her computer, back to the three, and then to her computer again, before clearing her throat.

“Your previous three standard rooms have been upgraded to our presidential suite, which has three private rooms off of one common area, with a kitchenette and a lounge area. This change was made about an hour ago at the request of a Mr. Coulson, who—according to our records—is picking up the tab. Will that be all?” she asked as she slid three room keys towards the trio.

They shared a look.

“We landed an hour ago, do you think…” Hermione began as she searched the lobby for anyone suspicious.

“I do,” Harrie whispered. “He’s from a governmental spy agency that no one has ever heard of. I absolutely think he—them—whatever, are stalking us.”

“So what do we do?” Ron asked, turning so his body completed their small little circle.

“Play along, until we get a better grip of what’s going on?” Harrie suggested.

“Harrie, we are in another country—arguably without permission from MACUSA—you’ll need to be cordial…”

“Excuse you!” Harrie whispered harshly, “I can be cordial.”

Both Ron and Hermione stared at her.

“When the situation calls for it, I can.”

They continued to stare.

“Fine,” Harrie said with a roll of her eyes, “We should probably limit my conversations with sketchy people of suspicion.”

“Like, Agent Coulson,” Ron nodded.

“Yes?” a man said behind them.

All three jumped around to look at the man.

“How did you do that?” Ron asked pointing to the clerk, who is pretending not to notice the group. The two girls started grabbing there bags from the floor.

“How about you tell us that long story up in our room,” Harrie suggested looking around the lobby at the people who weren’t as good at pretending to not eavesdrop as the clerk.

“Of course,” Agent Coulson tipped his head, as if he was doing the three a favor.

He followed them into the elevator.

“Did you know it’s called ‘Presidential Suite’, because President Woodrow Willson liked to have a room to set to his standards when he traveled? Hotels would go to such lengths and trouble that they went ahead and made it a standard. Today it’s the title of the best room in the place, equivalent to the ‘Royal Suite’ found back home,” Hermione rambled.

“Seems likes someone went to a lot of trouble for us,” Ron said, staring at the agent.

The agent said nothing.

“Makes you wonder why,” Harrie said in agreement, also staring at the agent.

The agent said nothing.

He followed them out the elevator to the farthest room down the hallway. They all stood around awkwardly through Hermione’s multiple attempts to get the door to unlock. Fifth time was the charm.

Once the door slammed shut, Harrie dropped her bags at her feet and rounded on the agent.

“Explain. Now,” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

“Consider it a friendly gift,” Agent Coulson said placatingly.

“A friendly gift?” Ron mocked from his spot on the couch and his feet on the clearly expensive coffee table.

“Yes. SHIELD has a long history working closely with the Stark family. Harrie, to put it plainly; we know what you’ve done, we know what you can do, and we would like you to work for us,” the agent said.

“A job offer,” Ron scoffed.

“No, not an official one at least,” Harrie said. “No papers, no bureaucratic questions, no fancy pen for me to use. He doesn’t want any record of this agreement.”

“And it is an agreement?” the agent asked.

“Where is my—where is Stark?” Harrie asked instead.

“We would get you all new papers—a new identity—for the muggle world. Of course,” he continued.

“Of course,” Ron said mockingly as he stood to stand next to Harrie.

“I’ll take your offer under consideration while I work on the job you first offered in order to get me here,” Harrie said as she stared the man down, with Ron standing behind her with his arms crossed. “You know, the one where I supposedly can save the man who ‘intel suggests’ is my father.”

Agent Coulson nodded in agreement, before dropping a large vanilla envelope on the coffee table and taking his leave.

“What an asshat,” Hermione said as soon as the door to their suite slammed shut. 

“An asshat who did get us a pretty nice room,” Ron said looking around as the classically decorated lounge area. “You think it’s bugged?”

“Shady government organization with an agent that just tried to hold information on Harrie’s supposed father for an agreement from her to work for them. Yes, I’d say the room is bugged. What’d he leave?” Hermione asked.

Harrie emptied the packaged contents on to the coffee table. Three smaller white letters, a file folder, and a picture fell out.

Hermione picked up one of the letters. It was sealed the muggle way requiring a tongue lick and not a wax press. She ripped it open at the side and started reading. 

Ron picked up the file and started perusing the pages in it, while Harrie picked up the picture. 

It was a standard muggle picture, a 3 and a half by 5 inches. It was black and white, and a little blurry. Yet, the couple in the picture were unmistakable. They were sitting at a table outside, with coffee cups in front of them. The woman was caught, mid laugh, looking at the man. But Harrie didn’t pay much attention to the man, because in her hand was a new picture, one she hadn’t seen before, of her mother—Lily Evans Potter.

“Harrie,” Ron said. 

Harrie didn’t acknowledge him. She didn’t look away from the picture of her mother. Instead choosing to do what she usually did when she found picture of her parents. She would stare. She would stare with an unwavering precision that would make professional stalkers envious. She would stare and search for anything, and everything that she found familiar from her own face. Like, for example, the way her mother’s eyes crinkled in the corners when she smiled, or the way her mother’s eyebrows would furrow when she was thinking. It was all documented on both their accounts, in the form of pictures—at least the magical ones moved.

“Harrie,” Ron said a little louder. 

Harrie used to think she had a lot of her father’s looks in her too. She had his same eyebrow shape, and the natural curve of his lips. She also had his messy hair and high cheek bones. But now, if she let her eyes roam to the other person in the photo, she’d see those same features on a man who didn’t go by the name ‘James Potter’. 

“Harrie,” Ron said, finally yelling her name.

“Ron,” Hermione yelled at him for yelling.

“Hermione!” Harrie yelled just to yell too.

“What?” Hermione asked, exasperated.

“I don’t know,” Harrie told her with a quick shrug of her shoulders.

Instead of explaining, Ron shoved one of the pages from the file in her face. Harrie took a step back and snatched the page from him to read.

“That’s a Personnel File on one, Dahlia Elizabeth Black—Tony Stark’s mother.” 

The first thing she noticed as picture of a woman about a decade older than her. She was wearing furs and had her hair in a fancy up-do.

“Look closer,” Ron ordered her.

She put the page on the table, for Hermione to see, and leaned over it.

“She looks like you,” Hermione said at the same time Harry spoke, “She’s old.” They looked up at each other, then at Ron.

Ron simply rolled his eyes at the two girls and pointed to the picture, to the woman, to the woman’s forehead—where a barely noticeable scar can be seen through the woman’s bangs.

“What—“ Hermione said, ripping the photo away from the other two to get a good look at the scar on the woman, “Harrie—How—This is impossible.”

“Something weird is going on,” Ron told them. “I think it’s time to find Stark.”

“The letters,” Hermione said, motioning to the two unopened envelopes on the table, “they’re invitations to a birthday party set for tonight.”

“Whose?” Ron asked as Harrie ripped another one open.

“Anthony Edward Stark,’” Harrie said staring at the letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know I've changed the name of Stark's mother (if that is something that bugs you, I am sorry)--but in my defense I couldn't figure out a logical way Harrie would would come up with 'Maria Collins Carbonell' as a fake name. I have chose the one one I've chosen for a reason, Dahlia Elizabeth Black, for a reason.  
> Dahlia, flower name like her mother's.  
> Elizabeth, I've got a head cannon that the Potter house names their heirs after British royalty.  
> Black, to honor her godfather who made her his heir (this may or may not play a roll in later conflict).  
> I'm trying to keep to the canon facts, but I'm forgiving myself for any artistic license I have to take in order to better the story.  
> Sorry for the long note, and thank you for reading!


	3. Machiavellian Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We, the United States of America, have just entered the War for Civilization going on in Europe. There is not a country in the world that won’t remember yesterday’s date. When exactly did you all come from?” Howard asks slowly, looking between the three, remembering he’s going to have to eventually call Peggy, decides he can afford to give the woman less reasons to rant at him.

If there is anything Howard Stark prides himself on, it’s his ability to turn any situation to his benefit. Some might frown on that particular skill, calling it contriving, calling him shrewd, maybe even manipulative. Howard prefers to call it ‘social engineering’, to go along with his vast known skills of ‘mechatronic engineering’. But all the years of refining his natural talent didn’t properly prepare him for the moment of actually succeeding in disproving Einstein’s Law of General Relativity, and theoretically founding a new branch of Quantum Physics. 

“Yes! It’s working!” Howard Stark yells into his empty laboratory, “Take that, you old bastard!”

His excitement dampens when he notices he is alone, but he is quickly distracted when the machine starting to glow a bright unnatural blue. The light grows, soon encompassing the whole room. There is a loud boom, the kind of heavy sound Howard feels down to his lungs. It leaves his ears ringing, and him on his hands and knees. Then, the light recedes, taking the power of his lab with it.

It’s quiet, too, until a muffled groan breaks the silence.

“Oh, crap, it worked,” he mumbles to himself, skirting around sharp corners and stepping over loose wire with practice ease, making his way over to the location of the growing noises of pain in the pitch black of his lab.

“Bloody hell,” a gravelly British male voice whines.

“Ron?” a more feminine asks. Her voice is a little on the adenoidal side. Yet, also modulated, as if she’s used to being in control. She’s got an accent, too. It reminds Howard of Peggy, and how he’s not going to enjoy that particular phone call.

“Everyone okay?” Howard asks, almost tripping over the third body.

“What the hell just happened?” the body asks. Another woman’s voice, this one is a little rougher and less refined, than the first. It’s got a hint of a smoky quality that leaves Howard hoping she’s got a body to match the sinful sound. “And who the hell are you?”

“Howard Stark,” he tells the woman as he helps her to her feet. He can hear the others moving around, figuring they’re also getting themselves situated. “And if I’m correct—which I always am—you three just time travelled.”

“Bloody hell,” the man says, his voice coming from a closer point than before. Howard doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing.

He clears his throat, “If you follow me upstairs, we can get out of the dark, and a drink. Yes. This situation would be much better with a drink. Scotch?” Howard asks, mind running through scenario after scenario of how to play this. He offers the woman closest to him an arm, “Watch your step. No, really, watch your step. We are in my secret laboratory—“

“You have a secret laboratory?” the woman on his arm asks. Her arm is thin and bare, stronger than he would have guessed from a woman. She has no problem following his movements as he makes for the door. But, the ever slight pull he feels from her lets him know the other two have some sort of grip on her and aren’t having her same luck.

“Of course I do, where else was I suppose to build a time machine?” Howard asks. He has swing a foot loosely for a moment or two to find the first step of the stairs.

“Oddly,” the man says, “that makes since.”

The other woman, the one not on his arm, scoffs, “For Fred and George, sure—“

Howard continues speaking, effectively talking over her, “Where I keep all my favorite inventions. Don’t touch anything. I like the machine better than I like new comers.”

Howards takes the first three steps, and can hear someone slam in to the first step, “Do be careful on the stairs. First step is a doozy.”

The man growls, but it’s effect is tampered by the sweet laugh of the woman on his arm.

“So,” Howard begins, as he reaches the top of the stairs. They are paused for a moment while he shoves the door open with his shoulder. Once they are out in the open light of the first floor of his house, “Now you know who I am, and you’ve seen the inside of my most guarded sanctuary. I think it’s about time I get some names.”

They are standing in the foyer of his Manhattan Mansion. It’s spacious and bright from the sun shining through the windows. The dark wood floors and furniture complement the light cream color of the walls. It’s his favorite residence, mainly because it puts him in the center of the action in the greatest city in the world.

“Ron,” the man offers, drawing Howard’s attention back to the group and away from his trophies. The man, Ron, is taller than him, standing over six feet tall. His Irish heritage shows clearly through his red hair and blue eyes. He’s got a few faded scars on his face and his stance screams ‘previous military, currently ready to fight’. He’s in a tailored black suit, with dried liquid spilt down the front of shirt. The women are similarly dressed in fancy ball gowns and big purses, yet both are in better condition. “Ron—“

The woman to his right elbows him in the ribs.

“Wazlib,” she says, in what is clearly an on-the-spot lie. She’s certainly a looker, in a silver ball gown complementing her dark ebony skin. She’s got a soft face and hints of a challenge in her eyes. “This is my boyfriend, Ronald Wazlib, and Rose Black—“

“And that’s my sister, Hermione,” the woman still resting her arm in his says.

The girl, Rose, a name he also doubts the legitimacy, has a mess of black curls pinned back in, what he can only assume was, once a delicate up-do. Some of her bangs had fall down and now frame last night’s smudged makeup. There are hints of a scar underneath it all, over her right eye.

Howard watches them all exchange condemning glances, before all looking at him.

He nods slowly, “I take it you three already have opinions on time traveling—For example,” he looks right at Rose, “giving true name.”

The girl, Rose, all curves and bite, rolls her eyes at him.

“Of course it’s not my real name,” she tells him.

“But the other’s used their real names,” Howard points out.

The girl nods seriously, “Yes, Ron Wazlib is absolutely his name.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes, hints of a smile on his face.

“Do you have any idea what you have done?” Hermione asks, interrupting their conversation, before any real banter can begin.

“Yes,” Howard says, puffing up a bit, “I made a working time machine, the first in known history, which means several published theorist need to go back to the drawling board. Quantum--”

“Yes!” Hermione yells, “and you jeopardized not only the future, but the very fabric of time! You don’t even have a clue to the consequences that will come from us being here!”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Howard dismisses her, turning his attention to Rose, which seems to only add to the fury building in Hermione.

“Oh, shite,” Ron says, yet is unheard over Hermione, “Dramatic? Dramatic? You want to see dramatic?”

“No, but feel free to carry on,” Howard says, already bored with this turn of events. He’s hear for science, what is down after he fiddles is someone else problem. 

Rose shoves herself between Hermione and him.

“Listen,” she says, laying a hand on his chest. Both Hermione and Howard look at the hand, and then at the hand’s owner. She awkwardly pats Howard’s chest and pulls her hand back.

“What my friend is trying to point out to you is that—if you are indeed correct—“

“I always am—“ Howard interrupts

“Look,” Ron says, stepping forward, interrupting all of them. Rude. “We are stuck in the past, with no money, no proper clothes, and no place to stay—all while knowing far too much information.”

“Which puts us in a dangerous situation,” the Hermione says.

Ron chuckles, “We don’t even know the date.”

“It’s the day after the Pearl Harbor Attack,” Howard answers the unasked question absently, as he quickly calculates how much his next move is going to cost him.

Ron looks at Rose, who gives a shrug of her shoulders and shoot a look at Hermione, who shakes her head in the negative.

“We’re British, mate,” Ron tells Howard as they all turn back to him.

“We, the United States of America, have just entered the War for Civilization going on in Europe. There is not a country in the world that won’t remember yesterday’s date. When exactly did you all come from?” Howard asks slowly, looking between the three, remembering he’s going to have to eventually call Peggy, decides he can afford to give the woman less reasons to rant at him.

They exchange looks, “2011.”

Howard whistles, “Do we win?”

“Do I win?” the other girl parrots, “Always. Anyone else? Well, you’ll have to wait and see.”

Ron and Hermione shoot her a look.

Howard feels himself smile, “How about this. I make a few phone calls and get you all some new identification. Meanwhile, I hire you as staff—“

“What will we be doing?” Hermione asks, with hands on her hips and a stone cold face. “Because I’ll have you know, the color of my skin does not give you the right to offer me any less of a job than these two. I’ve been called the brightest of my generation. I can comprehend complex ideas on a greater understanding than most of the population—“

“Is that your humble way of saying you have a high IQ?”

“144,” Hermione tells him without pause.

“How well do you know electronics?” Howard asks.

“Anything I don’t know today, I’ll know tomorrow,” Hermione tells him.

“That’s the kind of confidence I like to keep around. You’re hired,” he says with a smile.

“Pardon me?” Hermione asks.

“As my lab assistant. I’ve been in need of a new one for a while. I fired the last one because he had the nerve to tell me I couldn’t do something,” Howard tells them. “You three hungry? Is time travelling an exhausting endeavor?”

Howard turns towards the kitchen without waiting for an answer, pulling Rose with him.

“Wait, what about us two?” Ron asks.

Howard looks at him over his shoulder.

“Bodyguard,” he says.

Ron shrugs, and Howard takes that as an agreement.

“And me?” Rose asks, her strikingly green eyes looking up at him through long dark lashes.

“We’ll figure something out,” Howard answers with a playful smile.

“If you don't mind,” Hermione begins, “Could you give us a moment to talk in private?”

“Sure,” Howard tells her. “Right through there,” he points to the door behind them, “is my study. Take your time, I never use it.”

Hermione pulls the other two in to the room behind her.

Howard whistles, turning on his heals and sets off to find a phone. He’s got to make few phone calls to make.


	4. Arguably Arguing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter. Two in one day after roughly two weeks of nothing.  
> Because that is who I am as a person.

Hermione slams the wooden doors to the study behind her, and rounds on Ron and Harrie, “Are you bloody insane?” 

“Well,” Ron starts, flopping down on the couch in the center of the room.

“Are you asking in general, or…” Harrie adds as she starts lazily looking around the room at the various bookshelves and trinkets stashed around.

“Specific complaints need to be handwritten and submitted—“ Ron continues, watching Hermione, who was leaning against the door with her arms crossed in front of her.

“Response rate is about 5 to 8 business days—“ Harrie says as she fiddles with a small globe on Howard’s desk.

Ron opens his mouth, and then promptly shuts it when Hermione points a finger at him.

“No talking from you,” Hermione says and then turns to Harrie, “You're breaking the rules of time travel, like all of them! The only one you haven’t broken is the rule about letting yourself be seen by you! And even then, Howard Stark! He might be your grandfather!”

“I really hope he’s not my grandfather,” Harrie says as she takes a seat in the desk’s chair and begins to lazily spin in circles, “I mean that would be some damn good genes, but—“ 

“Eww!” Hermione says, walking farther into the room to grab a pillow of the couch Ron is sitting on and chunk it at Harrie.

“Wouldn't it be funny if the government got it all wrong?” Ron asks, handing Hermione another pillow. 

“I vote we figure that out. Like, at the top of the list,” Harrie says, dodging a third pillow.

“How?” Hermione asks with a huff since she ran out of pillows.

“Well. If we were in Britain,”Ron says, “We could just ask the Goblins. They’ve got that blood test for the unclaimed vaults…” 

He slumps down farther on the couch, snags a book off the coffee table before propping his feet up on it and using the book to block out the light.

“How would we find a magical bank in the States’? Do they have magical alleys here?” Harrie asks.

“Sure,” Ron says, his voice muffled by the book. 

Hermione reaches over to him and yanks the book off his face, “We can't do this. We could accidentally change something!”

“Isn't that a chance we should take?” Harrie asks, stopping her spinning to give Hermione a look.

Ron slugs an arm over his eyes and gives a proper Gryffindor effort to falling asleep.

“There is study after study published by the Unspeakables over exactly why going back in time and changing things is awful and an ethically bad decision,” Hermione argues, arms flailing and voice rising.

“But they all use time turners,” Harris points out, “which are closed loop and a ridiculously easy way to create a paradox.” 

Harrie starts exploring the hidden secrets held in Howard’s desk drawers and cabinets.

“Right. Since I’ve matured over the many years,” Ron pauses for the girls to scoff, “I don’t understand why anyone would trust a 12 year old with a time turner. I mean, yeah, Hermione you were abnormally mature and level headed for your age—but Harrie and I weren’t. We could’ve really done some damage, you know?”

“Exactly why we shouldn’t be messing with it now. There are important events going on over in Europe. Anything we do—“

“Like say, saving the half of population the British Wizarding World is set to loose?” Harrie asks. “Hermione, we didn't use a time turner to get here. For all we know, we are stuck here indefinitely—”

“With that kind of power,” Hermione starts. 

“With that kind of opportunity—” Harrie retorts.

“We don't know what we could do,” Hermione says,

“We could change the world,” Harrie slams her hands down on the desk, “We can change fate!”

Ron jumps up and on to the coffee table, turning to the two girls, “What if we already did?”

“Why are you standing on the table?” Hermione asks. 

“Perspective,” Ron says simply. “What if we already changed the world?” 

“How would we know?” Hermione asks, crossing her arms and glaring at Ron. 

“What if we were meant to be here?” he retorts, playing the devils advocate.

Hermione shakes her head negatively, “I think we can count that theory out. I feel like we would know. We would have discovered something left behind…” 

“Wouldn’t it be funny if Harrie was actually Tony’s mom, and not his daughter?” Ron asks, spinning around to Harrie to catch her reaction.

She lifts a middle finger in his direction, not looking up from a drawer she was rummaging through.

“That’d be hilarious,” Hermione deadpans.

Ron looks over at her, noticing her annoyance, and clears his throat. He clasps his hands behind him and gives his best Professor Flitwick impression.

“When gathered all the facts; Tony, Howard’s son, is born in ‘63. Lily Evans was born ‘69. Harrie was born in ‘91. There is proof they all share DNA. What is your conclusion?” Ron asks. 

“You think SHIELD was wrong?” Hermione asks, with a tinge of disbelief. 

Harrie and Ron share a look.

“Blood test?” Ron offers.

“Blood test,” Harrie agrees.

“Then you two can be in charge of that tom-foolery,” Hermione says, throwing her hands in the air. “But don’t think for a moment that you’ve distracted me from the real issue! Things need to play out how they are suppose to, especially in Europe. ”

“Hermione,” Harrie pleads, stopping her snooping to look Hermione in the eye.

“We don’t have all the fact. There is a chance we could make things worse,” Hermione argues. “What about the Hollows?

“What about the Hollows?” Harrie asks defensively.

“Well, do you have them?” Ron asks, jumping down off the coffee table to make his way closer to the desk.

“Of course I have them,” Harrie pulls her purse on to her lap and starts digging around. She pulls out the silvery cloak first, then the death stick, then the stone.

“See? I have them,” Harrie with an over exaggerated show of hands.

“Exactly!” both Hermione and Ron say excitedly, shooting quick glances at each other.

“Grindelwald is suppose to have the stick!” Hermione says.

“You brought it with you, we are already changing things!” Ron says.

Harrie looks back and forth between the two, “You’ve both lost me.”

“It’s pointless to try to not change anything,” Ron explains, leaning against the desk, “We already are, let’s just not go crazy with it.”

Hermione lets out a deep sigh. “We already fought our war, full of shit people and a dumb Dark Lord.” Hermione rubs her arm where an old scar resides. “We won. Why are you so determined to fight another?”

Harrie looks at her, loosing all the fight see had at the sight of her exhausted best friend. Hermione was right, their war was over. They won, and not all the wounds have healed. But, “People are going to die, we know they will. I could save a lot of them if I got involved. Even more, if we did it as a team.”

“How about this,” Ron offers, slinging an arm over Hermione and pulling her close, “We take it day by day here. We figure out how to live in this time, hell, we figure out how to live. We’ll do some research. We’ll get some money. And, then—when we know what we are doing—we’ll get involved.”

Hermione and Harrie stare at each other for a bit, before each nodding and agreeing to the terms.

_Meanwhile,_  
Howard dials a number he knows by heart, “Carter, you should probably get over here. I might have done something…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've messed with a few of the dates in both universes.   
> I know I did, and I'm sorry. Especially if you are one of the few that is bothered by that.  
> Because I am one of the few, and I had to really justify it to myself.


	5. The Past is a Foreign Country

“Time travel?” Agent Margret ‘Peggy’ Carter asks them. She had been pacing the white carpets of the living room floor in Howard Stark’s Mansion, as Howard explained exactly how the Harrie, Hermione and Ron, had come to be.

“Yes,” Hermione says. She’s sitting between Harrie and Ron, on a horrid stiff leather couch, watching the woman pace as Howard frets over his tale. “But that’s hardly the biggest issue at hand, here.”

“And, you two,” Agent Carter says turning to face Hermione. She waves a pointed finger, gesturing between Hermione and Harrie, “Are sisters?”

“Yes,” Hermione says, tilting her chin up, “We are.”

Harrie crosses her arms, slouching a little against the side of the couch as she glares at the agent, daring her to say something against the fact.

The agent just nods, as if making a note of the fact in her head. Then, turns to Howard and smacks him in the back of the head.

Hermione shots Harrie a raised eyebrow. Harrie shrugs back to her.

“Hey,” Howard protests as he rubs his head, “What was that for?”

Agent Carter crosses her arms and glares at the man.

“Okay, that was a stupid question,” Howard agrees.

“What’s the plan here?” the agent asks him.

“Well,” his hand drops to his neck as he looks at her sheepishly, “I was hoping you would have one.”

“We have a plan,” Ron speaks up with a quick glance at Harrie and Hermione. “At least, a temporary one, until Stark can fix the machine.”

“Yeah, about that,” Howard says unsteadily.

“About that?” the agent and Hermione ask together.

“It’s broken,” Howard explains.

Hermione shots Harrie a look out of the corner of her eye. Harrie looks back at her, mirroring her face of growing worry.

“Then fix it,” the agent says.

Hermione looks back at the duo in front of her. She takes stalk of Howards stance, as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He’s got a on hand shoved in his pocket, and another carting through his hair to rub the back of his neck. He’s nervous, unsure of something—maybe himself.

“I,” Howard stops, clears his throat and starts again. “I can’t.”

At that admittance, Hermione turns her attention to Ron, who’s fingers are scratching against the fabric of his black slacks. He’s staring at Howard with a look Hermione doesn’t like.

“You, Howard Stark, are telling me you can fix something?” the agent asks.

“Peg’s, I’m telling you that I was experimenting with something, and I don’t have anymore of that something.”

“What ‘something’?” the agent asks.

Howard shrugs, “I don’t know, haven’t given it a name yet. It was a previously undiscovered element—I thought it could power the time machine, but it used up more than I had planned. There is none left.”

“Well,” Harrie says as she jumps up from the couch. “The three of us are going to get some fresh air, maybe hit the town—“

“Maybe fracture the space-time continuum,” Hermione tacks on as she also rises from the couch. She, and Harrie, make their way to the door.

Ron stands up after the girls, and give the agent and Howard a shrug, “I guess we’ll decide while we’re out.”

“Wait,” both Howard and the agent call out, as the group reaches the front hallway.

“Let me call up my chauffeur for you,” Howard offers.

“Aren’t you going to change?” the agent asks.

Hermione and Harrie look over themselves and give a quick glance at each other.

“We should, shouldn’t we?” Harrie asks with a defeated sigh.

“These gowns might be a little much for a middle of the afternoon stroll,” Hermione points out.

“I’m good,” Ron tells them with a teasing smile.

“I’ll try to have proper identification for each of you by this time tomorrow,” the agent promises.

Howard shows the girls to a guest room with a closet that has a shocking amount of women’s clothes in various sizes and shapes. Harrie and Hermione don’t ask. Howard doesn’t tell.

A half hour later, the girls are once again standing in front of the front door with Ron. After numerous polite refusals to company of both Howard and the agent, the trio are shown to the car Howard called for them and off towards the city.

“What is our plan?” Hermione asks Ron. 

There is a thin wall separating the driver from where they are sitting. They’re all scrunched together in the backseat of the car, with Harrie sitting in the center this time.

“I was thinking,” Ron says as he shifts to find a comfier position, “Since Diagon Alley is across the street from a popular train station, and we get to Hogwarts through a popular train station. We should start our search at the popular train station in town.”

“Makes sense,” Harrie agrees. “Where are we headed, then?”

“No idea,” Ron tells her.

Hermione huffs at the two, “We’ll find a map.”

“What’s got your bonnet in a hornet’s nest?” Ron asks.

Harrie and Hermione stare at him, before Hermione answer, “We are in New York city, in the 1940’s—“

“You’re worried?” Ron asks, leaning back and looking Hermione up and down as if he’s never met her.

“Terrified,” Hermione confirms.


	6. New York, New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bad portkey,” Ron says, before clearing his throat.
> 
> Everyone looks at him skeptically.
> 
> “I didn’t know a portkey could take a wizard across the ocean," the prosecutor points out.
> 
> “Us either, sir,” Ron lies, a little more surely. “Bit of surprise to us. One minute, we were arguing over who got to keep Aunt Muriel old haunted bone vase. Next minute we are standing out front some fancy train station.”

People are staring at them. Ron shifts closer to Hermione as they walk along the sidewalk leading to the Grand Central Station. Harrie threads her arm around Hermione’s elbow. Both serving as bookends, a sort of protection and moral support for the girl.

“Barbaric,” Harrie mutters under her breath.

“You do get that this is the norm, right?” Hermione asks. “That the people here, the people like me, they face this—and worse, daily. This is just a glimpse at the… at the… utter bullshit of a socio-economic class system that is New York in the 1940’s. Did you know that racial segregation is still a normal and legal thing at the moment?”

Harrie opens her mouth to say something, not that anything could really be said to that, but all the same she is interrupted.

“Hey, you three,” a heavy accented voice yells from behind them.

All three of them turn to see two police officers approaching.

“This is about to go bad,” Hermione whispers.

“They won’t get close to you,” Ron says as he and Harrie shift in front of her.

“Very, very bad,” Hermione says.

“Hello officers. How may we be of assistance, today?” Ron asks.

“What are you three doing here?” the second officer asks in a deep New York accent. 

“Walking to the train,” Harrie says. “Obviously.”

She makes an offhanded wave at the grand looking station a block in front of them. The second officer gives her a glare, not liking her disrespect. Harrie is more surprised Hermione didn’t elbow her.

“We’re going to need to see some identification papers,” the first officer sticks his thumbs into the belt loops of his pants and gives each of them a once over.

The second officer crosses his arms in front of his chest, letting the baton he’s holding dangle out to the side of him.

Ron waves his hand in the air. “You don’t need to see any papers,” Ron points his arm, with his wand tucked up his sleeve, at both officers. “We are free to go.”

Harrie gives him an exacerbated look. “Did you just make a Jedi joke, 40 years before the movies comes out?” 

“Too early?” Ron asks.

The officers look to be leaving. Until one spots Hermione.

“What are you doing here, girl?” the second officer snarls.

“Look at that, bigotry wins out against a Confucius Charm. Who would have figured,” Ron says.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Hermione says as she pulls out her own wand, gives it a subtle wave, and both officers turn into croaking toads on the sidewalk.

Ron and Harrie quickly look around the street to see if anyone saw.

“To think, Mad-eye would be so disappointed in us right now,” Ron mutters, as he elbows Harrie and points to a man on the other side of the street.

He is staring at them, mouth open and head cocked to the side. The stranger starts to make his way to them.

He is tall, almost as tall as Ron. He’s got brown hair slicked back. He’s wearing a worn suit, and a smile. His eyes gaze over the three of them, landing on Harrie.

“Are you…“ the man starts to ask, but stops. 

“What’s your name?” Harrie asks him.

“Bucky. Bucky Barnes. You ain’t from around here, are ya, doll?” Bucky asks.

Harrie turns to Hermione, “He’s adorable.”

Bucky scoffs, “Sweetheart, I am many thing, adorable is not one of them.”

Hermione looks at Harrie, “No.”

Harrie turns back to Bucky. This time, her smile curves up at the corners, and she shows more teeth.

“You live around here?” Harrie asks him.

He shakes his head in the negative.

“Brooklyn,” he tells her, “But I work at the train station. I’m a dispatcher—I’m responsible for traffic control for the incoming and outgoing trains.”

Their conversation is interrupted by the appearance of three uniformed wizards. One aims a wand at Bucky and obliviates him. The two other uniformed wizards apparate Harrie, Hermione and Ron.

They appear in what looks to be a holding cell.

“Do you three have any idea what you have done?” the guard asks

“Of course,” Harrie answers at the same time Ron says, “No, why?” and Hermione asks, “Where are we?”

The guard’s attention bounces from each of them like tennis match, and he clears his throat, “Unlawful magic on a Nomaj--”

“A what?” Ron asks.

“I think he means the police officers,” Hermione whispers to him.

“So, you admit it?” he busters.

“We don’t admit anything,” Harrie says. “Besides, this has been a big misunderstanding.”

“We know the truth!” he says, getting louder, “You snuck across our borders, tortured a nomaj--what are you? One of Grindelwald’s?”

Harrie and Ron scoff, “I am offended!” Harrie snarls.

“Look, we didn’t sneak across any borders, and the nomaj threatened us first,” Hermione says.

“How did you get here then? There is no record of you signing in to the country, filthy Brits,”

“Now I’m really offended,” Harrie says. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and make a comment about my mother, while you’re at it?” Ron says. “You’ve insulted my honor, called me a liar, bad mouthed my country--”

“Is there someone we could explain our situation to?” Hermione asks.

“Yeah, isn’t this the land of the free and all that? You fancy States, with your innocent until proven guilty, where’s our trial with a jury of our peers?”

The guard goes to yell at them, either for their hackling, or for the demand of trial. But the grand doors at the end of the hallway slam open, and a wizard asks for the ‘three miscreants”.

“We can explain,” Hermione says.

The Judge leans back in her chair and waves her hand for Hermione to begin.

Hermione shoots a look at Ron and Harrie.

“Bad portkey,” Ron says, before clearing his throat.

Everyone looks at him skeptically.

“I didn’t know a portkey could take a wizard across the ocean," the prosecutor points out.

“Us either, sir,” Ron lies, a little more surely. “Bit of surprise to us. One minute, we were arguing over who got to keep Aunt Muriel old haunted bone vase. Next minute we are standing out front some fancy train station.”

“And where is this vase now?” the prosecutor asks.

Ron shrugs and looks at Hermione, who shrugs and looks at Harrie.

“I might of dropped it?” Harrie adds to the lie. “The police showed up and everything got a little confusing.”

“And you didn’t check in, because…” the judge asks.

“We didn’t know where to do that,” Hermione says, taking control again. “We wanted to, being in a new country and it being the rule to do so. We just didn’t know where we were suppose to go.”

The Judge turns to one of the people behind her, “Show them the way.”

Then she turns to the prosecutor, “Commissioner, don’t bring me another of these issues.”

The three are directed out of the courtroom before they could hear his reply.

The Judge’s assistant shows them to a desk, where they are asked to fill out paperwork.

“You think eventually we will stumble into a time period where it’ll make sense to use quills?” Ron asks.  
“What are you two putting down as your birthday?” Harrie asks.

“Are we keeping the names we gave Howard?” Hermione asks.

Ron looks up at them.

“Keep the names. He’s getting us identification with those names. Any guesses on how old he’ll make us?” Ron adds.

“Easiest lie to tell is the truth, so keep it close to the truth as possible,” Hermione says as she steals Harrie and Ron’s papers. 

She scribbles something down, and then hands it back to them.

“Birthday, July 31st, 1919. Why am I the youngest?” Harrie asks, comparing her paper to Ron’s.

“Because you are?” Ron says as he hands the lady behind the counter his paper. Then, he grabs Harrie’s from her to hand to the lady. She starts filing the papers immediately. Ron takes it as a dismissal and turns to go, pulling Harrie with him.

“If I needed to replenish my potion’s ingredients, where would I go?” Hermione asks.

“Macy’s,” the lady behind the desk tells her, not looking up from her filing.

“Macy’s?” Hermione asks, her head rears back as if personally offended at the thought.

The woman looks up, and shoots Hermione a look that questions her intelligence without actually saying anything. “Yes, Macy’s. Their top floor is for Magics and all our needs. It’s located off of Herald Square.”


End file.
